Learning From The Future
by antisocialnerd101
Summary: Through events she can barely fathom, Hermione Granger woke up in Knockturn Alley, in her five-year-old body in 1965. Eventually she runs into someone from her past, or rather future, whose paranoia and sociopathic tendencies become her norm. And let's not forget the four hooligans that seem set on annoying her. She has already lost one family, she can't lose another.
1. Chapter 1: Shadows

Chapter 1:

Shadows

Cold air nipped at Hermione's fingers. The stereotypical British weather wasn't on the Order's side, the icy wind seeping through their clothes and into their skin. Whilst the others shivered in their sleep, Hermione sat waiting for George and Neville to reappear from between the trees. They had gone patrolling a few hours ago, leaving her to sit and guard the camp. When they returned, they'd wake up Luna, Hannah Abbott and Ron so that the base stayed well-protected whilst she was able to enjoy a short but blissful sleep.

Everything seemed to make her jump. The low howl of the wind, the rustling of the leaves, Arthur Weasley's soft snores. She could no longer tell if her hands were shaking from the cold or from fear. Probably a bit of both. Her hands gripped tightly on to the open book placed on her lap, fingers digging into the aging parchment. Hermione rolled her head back and rested her crown against the tough bark of the tree that was perched behind her.

She always liked looking at the night sky. It was calm and serene. To some people, a never-ending black abyss was terrifying but to Hermione it was peaceful. Tiny stars poked through the sea of darkness and she counted them to pass the time. It was too dark to read now and a Lumos could bring attention to their whereabouts to passer-by's. With an awful lot of effort and squinting she managed to make out Orion's belt. That meant Sirius was close by.

Five weeks. That was how long the Order had been stationed here. It felt twice as long. There was no hot water, no where sanitary for people to relieve themselves. Hermione, Arthur and George had eventually managed to fashion a little privacy area near the creek. An intricate circle of invisibility for people to do what was necessary to maintain hygiene. Behind that invisible barrier was essentially two buckets. One for bathing and the other for less clean activities. There was only a certain amount of times where you could clean yourself via magic without still feeling disgusting.

Hermione felt herself going a bit mad sometimes. Not with hysteria or from the memories of all those blank dead faces she left rotting back at Hogwarts. They were definitely contributors, but the main factor was boredom. Her daily routine was so consistent. Wake up; read; eat; read; stand guard; read; survey the area; read; eat; read; sleep. Then repeat. Every once in a while, there was that terrifying yet exhilarating moment when she and someone else who would go foraging for food in the nearby markets and other local shops. Funnily enough, her disguising spells had greatly improved from the amounts of times she had to use them to go and prowl around the Muggles farmer's market.

When she did go shopping it was usually with George or Ron. The last two surviving Weasley siblings. Molly kept to her tent most days and on the odd occasion she would come out it'd be to go to the creek to wash. Every night, without fail, her cries echoed around the forest. Her husband put a silencing charm around their tent in case any passer-by Death Eaters heard her sobs. Hermione tried to take over Molly's position as the head chef, but it was quickly discovered that her knowledge of spells was much more extensive than her knowledge of food. Arthur tried to maintain a strong façade for his two sons, but as soon as he put it up it would just come crumbling down. He spent most of his days repressing emotions and failing to be optimistic.

_Crack. _Hermione sprang to her feet, drawing her wand with lightning speed. In the blink of an eye, she had gone from stargazing to a duel stance with her wand ready and poised. She involuntarily sighed with relief when she saw Ron standing there with his hands raised in surrender. "Ronald Billus Weasley get back to bed!" she hissed quietly.

"Can't sleep." He whispered meekly. Hermione sighed exasperatedly and settled herself back on the ground, twigs digging into her back. She motioned for him to sit, to which he eagerly accepted the invitation and flopped down next to her.

"Do try to be quiet." She murmured. Her words were more aggressive than her tone. She nuzzled into Ron's side. "Merlin, your warm."

"If you're cold why not just use a warming charm?"

"I did. Do you really think magic can win against typical British weather?" she asked cuddling closer.

He snorted. Ron wrapped an arm around Hermione's shoulders and hesitantly placed his head on top of hers. But then her manic hair nearly suffocated him, so he thought it best to just copy her earlier position and lean it against the tree.

"How's your mum?" Hermione asked eventually.

Ron's chest heaved. "A little better, I think. She smiled earlier. It wasn't, y'know, a _real_ one. But I'm counting it as a win…" His voiced trailed away, his dull blue eyes fixing themselves on the sky. He looked very pensive, with his brow creased in thought and his eyes absently gazing at nothing. Out of habit he drew patterns on Hermione's shoulder but apart from that he seemed completely unaware of her presence. She decided to reopen her book and skimmed through the pages, her poor eyes squinting to see the words through the darkness that smothered the pages. "What're you reading?" He asked.

"'The Elaborate and Complex Intricacies of Defensive Magic'."

"Mm. Sounds riveting."

"This coming from the man that earlier this week found great entertainment by pelting a tree with rocks. In what world is reading a book less appealing than abusing a tree?"

"In all of them." Ron smirked when he saw Hermione rolling her eyes. "Can't handle it when you're wrong can you?" he teased and nudged her side.

"I wouldn't know. I'm not acquainted with the sensation."

Ron chuckled lowly. "Only you." He muttered. A cold breeze washed over them and Ron shuddered, pulling Hermione closer. "You're right, it's bloody freezing." Pulling out her wand out from her sleeve, Hermione murmured a small warming charm. Heat immediately swept through her and she sighed with contentment, Ron doing the same next to her. "Cheers."

They both sat in companionable silence. Enjoying the calm stillness that night brought with it. Ron wasn't the only one that was up after hours it seemed. Seamus and Justin Finch-Fletchley were huddled in front of their tent, the distant echo of chatter ringing through the camp. Hermione turned her head back to the direction Neville and George walked through. Once again, it would seem she was surrounded by boys.

She felt eyes boring into the back of head and turned to see her best friend with damp patches drying on his cheeks. Unhesitatingly she brought her hand to his pale face and rubbed her thumb over the tears on his face.

"Do you miss him?" Ron asked quietly, averting his eyes from her face.

"You're going to have to be a little more specific."

"Harry." He said, his voice wavering "Do you miss Harry?"

Hermione stiffened. There had been an unspoken agreement between everyone in the camp that no one was to mention the third member of the Golden Trio. It was a rule. And Ron had broken it.

Harry was gone. Every time Hermione reviewed that thought, grief would weigh down on her chest making it heavy to the point where breathing became hard. Her throat closed up and her heart would ache. Tears would fill her eyes, but she'd never let them fall. There was always this hope that he wasn't truly gone. The last time he 'died' minutes later he jumped from Hagrid's arms with his wand ready. Looking back on it now, she wished he had just stayed dead the first time so she wouldn't have this naive hopefulness that any second now, he would just pop out from nowhere alive and smiling.

Smiling. That thought hit her heart. Something that had been absent from his face for so long and now she never would never see it again.

She felt so many emotions when she thought of Harry and all of them did nothing to balm her pain. Bittersweet. That's what Harry was. He was painful to think about; the way he died was unjustified, his family were either dead or cruel, he had so much more life to live. But it was impossible to think of him without the smallest hint of a smile. He was so pure. He was hopeless with emotions but never did anything with spiteful intentions. His whole debacle with Cho Chang immediately sprung to mind; him being so awfully embarrassed every second they were together. Something she delighted herself teasing him with.

Merlin, Hermione missed him. She missed him so much. However, her throat was closing, and she resisted against the tears that fought to stream down her face, so all she could manage to say in response was, "Yeah. I do."

"Me too." Was her companion's reply, the break in his voice hinting he was feeling the same consuming emotions she was. Neither Ron nor Hermione added anything to their conversation after that. They both sat there together under the tree, looking up at the faint glowing stars. The whispering between the trees made up for their lack of conversation.

It was at that moment they realised any trace of Harry Potter; the _real_ Harry Potter would die with them.

"Hermione!" Neville called as he trudged his way back to the clearing. The abrupt sound sent her flying and just like before, she leapt into a duelling stance, her wand pointed at the reckless boy who thought it a good idea to scare a paranoid witch.

"Woah, 'Mione." George said as he pulled up beside the terrified Neville. "Just us. You can put the wand away."

Embarrassed at her own behaviour, her cheeks and ears flushed a self-conscious red hue, "Sorry." She cleared her throat and looked down at Ron before she nodded in the direction of her tent. "I'll go get Luna and Hannah. Wait here." She whispered, subtly sliding her wand back into the inside of her jumpers' sleeve.

Leaves and twigs crunched under the heavy soles of her boots as she trekked her way back to her tent. Once inside, she could immediately feel all the cold from outside being overpowered by the dozens of complex warming charms she had placed on the material of the four walls. It was a decent sized tent, with room for three small beds, a dressing table, a shelf for Hermione's books and a little desk tucked away in the corner of the room. Obviously, the outer exterior suggested that not half the number of things that fit in here would be able to.

On two of the beds seemed to be two sets of detached blond hair, that were splayed over the starch white pillows. Thick duvets covered the rest of the bed and some sort of lumpy form underneath. At first glance, it appeared that both Luna and Hannah had been engulfed by their beds.

With as much stealth and silence as possible Hermione crept to Luna's bed and knelt down on one leg. "Luna…" she cooed lightly, gently stroking the soft peroxide blond curls. There was no movement from the mass underneath the blankets, but a soft purr seemed to be coming from it. Hermione tried again with a firmer tone, "Luna." No movement whatsoever. "Luna!" The sleeping figure abruptly sat up, her head only missing Hermione's by the breadth of a hair. Still half-asleep Luna snatched her wand from its place on the bed next to her and kept its tip pointing at her friend, who had already rocked back on to her feet and stood erect with her own wand drawn. "Hey, Luna. It's just me." Hermione hushed softly. "You're fine."

All panic evaded Luna's silvery eyes the moment they settled on Hermione's face. Her features softened and her shoulders sagged with relief. "Is it our turn already?" she breathed; her familiar silky voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah. Sorry." Both girls slipped their wands away. Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, yanking off her boots and shrugging off her coat and second jumper. Luna was copying Hermione's earlier position and was bent over Hannah, attempting to rouse her from sleep. It took a good few attempts from Luna to get any stirring from the mountain of blankets and Hermione found great entertainment from watching.

Hermione never got to see Hannah finally wake up because by the time she had, Hermione had already slipped into sleep. Her breathy snores not failing to make her roommates giggle.

Empty darkness became dreams and dreams became nightmares. From her constant exposure to the horrors of war, Hermione quickly realised that the nightmares would now be as common as breathing. It only made sense that her dreams should reflect her every-day. However, that didn't stop her from uncontrollably shaking whilst her skin produced a thin layer of sweat that made her stick to her sheets.

Hours passed by.

Hermione's mind had created a myriad of tortures for her to experience during that time. Both physically and emotionally. Obliviating her parents was one, cradling Harry's wooden face was another. They just replayed themselves constantly along with a variety of others.

Tonight's being her unfortunate escapades in Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix's chilling and haunting voice echoed another 'Crucio' and Hermione was immersed with the memory of a cruel and punishing pain that had her convulsing irrepressibly. It was the mix of the hot searing agony from the Cruciatus curse mixed with the characteristic chill of Lucius Malfoy's home that still made the experience ever prominent in Hermione's mind. It was that harsh contrast she remembered most. The room was freezing, to the point where her body was involuntarily shivering, and goose bumps made themselves present on her pale skin. Yet at the same time the curse had caused her every inch to burn, every single cell of her body blistering. The memory of that pain caused her breathing to become erratic and all the blood to rush to her heart.

Expecting for Bellatrix's infamous cackle to erupt Hermione was shocked when all she could hear were faint whispers. She couldn't detect any words, just hushed tones. That didn't happen the first time. Her eyes flickered to her surroundings. It was the same foreboding room, high ceilings and overly dramatic gothic portraits. And within it was the same foreboding group of individuals. Each of their voices detached from their bodies. Hermione could see their snarling mouths moving, forming words but all she could hear was the growing whispers.

They echoed around her ears. Like the static of a radio. It made her wince and she screwed her eyes shut. The whispers grew louder and louder. Making both her ears and head pound in synchronicity.

_Bang!_

Hermione immediately broke free from sleep's hold and launched on to her feet whilst simultaneously slipping her wand from its secure place in her sleeve. Her breathing was erratic and uneven. Her heart beating inconsistently. She quickly glanced around her. Nothing had happened. Not a thing was out of place; the books still consumed one corner of the tent, Hannah's clothes were still strewn on her bed, the plates from yesterday's dinner were still cluttered on the dressing table. For a few heavenly seconds, everything was quiet. Until a voice broke through the blissful silence.

"For Merlin's sake! Put the damned thing back!" Arthur's usually cheerful voice roared.

"Not until we know what it is!" Ron argued back.

Groaning, Hermione flopped back on to her lumpy mattress, tugging her boots back on after slipping her wand away. With her heavy boots now weighing down on her feet she trudged out from her tent. Rosy streaks painting over the usual calm blue. The sun was coming up and with it came harsh light that assaulted Hermione's poor and tired eyes. She rubbed them absent-mindedly.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the entire camp gathered by the edge of the clearing; excluding Molly. Their voices were loud but distorted and Hermione found herself involuntarily following the sound of their argument. Words finally becoming distinct.

"It could be dangerous, Ron! It could be dark magic!" Arthur Weasley thundered.

His son shook his mop of ginger hair. "Then we should find out how to destroy it! We can't just put it back!"

"What on Earth is going on?" Hermione asked Seamus as she came up beside him, noticing the object in Ron's hands was a book. A large heavy book with a peeling leather cover and well-loved pages which were bound by a comically large padlock and chains. She could make out letters on the cover, but its message was distorted because Ron couldn't keep his stupid arms still long enough for her to be able to read it.

"Ron found that when he was patrolling. He thinks it might be useful but his dad ain't that keen." Seamus whispered back, his not averting from the scene before him.

"Why don't you talk to him, Hermione?" Neville suggested softly from her other side.

"Which one?"

Neville laughed quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I honestly don't care anymore. Their arguing is keeping me up and I just want to sleep."

"Sorry, Neville." Hermione sighed as she rubbed his back sympathetically, making the corners of his mouth tilt upwards.

"Hermione! Thank Merlin, someone with sense." Arthur grumbled, the lines on his forehead deepening when he furrowed his brow. "Would you please tell my son; how idiotic he's being."

"Gladly." She breathed, striding up to Ron. "Ronald. You're being very idiotic."

"How would you know? You only just got here!"

"Seamus caught me up. Now get rid of that book." Words she never thought she'd hear herself say.

"For once," the redhead groaned "Couldn't you be on _my_ side of the argument?"

"Let's be honest. The day that happens the devil will be ice skating to work." She deadpanned. Her brown eyes quickly and discreetly glancing down at the tome in her best friend's hands. "Although, I never thought I'd see the day where you'd be hellbent on a book. I'm somewhat proud."

Ignoring her comment, Ron continued to argue. "But look what it says. 'Only the worthy may read me.' What if we're worthy?"

"Don't be silly." She chided.

"I'm not. We could open it!"

Hermione felt her throat close as she read the scratched inscription for herself; it was if someone carved it in with a knife. Not an awfully good impression. "But we can't Ron. We're not… We're not _Harry._" She stressed, her voice croaking with emotion but her face was still and impassive like she trained it to be.

"You're not listening to me—"

"No. You're not listening. Merlin, this is third year all over again." She muttered the last bit mainly to herself, but Ron still heard.

"And there wasn't anything wrong with the Firebolt, was there?"

"But there could have been."

"But there wasn't."

"But there could have been."

"But there wasn't."

"But there could have been!" she shouted, her hands balling into fists. "Now put it back where you found it!"

"Don't treat me like a child!"

"Then stop acting like one!" she yelled, snatching the book from his grasp. "We're the last, Ron! Us lot; everyone here! And I will _not_ risk the lives of the last few decent wizards and witches on the planet over a book I can't even read! Have some common sense…" Hermione's voice trailed away. As soon as the tips of her fingers met the cold leather, whispers filled her head. Quiet and subtle, they were barely there giving her the impression that it was nothing but a small annoying insect. But then they got progressively louder, just like they had before. Making her head and ears throb whilst she screwed her eyes shut, attempting to force out the aching pain.

"Hermione…" came Ron's voice, cautious and small. Like a tiny boat in an ocean of noise. She pried her eyes apart only to see his wide with panic and fear, staring at the book in her hands. As was everyone else; their faces drained of colour, eyes fearful and bulging. Unnerved by the expressions of her fellow Order members, Hermione compelled herself to look down.

A glowing indigo light seeped from between the pages, on to the chains and all over Hermione's jumper. She leapt back with a start and threw the book on the floor. The moment its spine grazed the grass, the padlock shattered into shards and the chain was propelled several feet away. The book fell open, its pages blank and on display. Some torturous seconds passed where Hermione found herself stumbling back in fear, dread coursing through her.

"…Was that it?" she heard Seamus ask.

A burst of black light erupted from the parchment and bled into the early morning sky. Ink spilled over any traces of blue cloaking the camp in a thick dark layer. The sound of it gushing and swirling made it feel like an ominous black sea was drowning them all. Hermione tried to run but found her legs useless without her vision. She tripped over her own heavy boots and fell to the ground, her cheek burning from the friction. She twisted her torso to sit up but stopped when she noticed something trying to peek out from behind the darkness.

Gold appeared from behind and seeped through the gloom. But only in some places of the sky. Three large metallic swirls materialised. It irradiated the camp, making the panicked and frightened faces of her friends visible. She followed their blank gazes. Hair whipping in her face, Hermione felt her jaw slacken as the shapes were joined together with three golden lines. The symbol of Merlin. Her heart thundered in her chest and blood gathered at the back of her throat.

The instant all the gold had morphed into one illuminous form, tendrils of shadows whipped and lashed from the sky. Hermione's heart lodged itself in her throat. Screams echoed from around the camp. The glow from the symbol that adorned the sky provided enough light for Hermione to leg it. She scrambled to her feet and sprinted to Ron who stood still with shock. Taking his large hand in hers she pulled him to the middle of the camp. With short and uneven breaths, she shook him by the shoulders. "Ron, you're going to have to Apparate. Ron!" she shook him harder. Startled, his face snapped to hers. "Ron, you need to Apparate."

"What about you?" he asked helplessly, gripping on to her hand like a vice.

"Someone has to help Arthur get Molly out of here. Now go!"

"No," he shook his head stubbornly, "I'm not leaving you."

"Ron, please!" Hermione begged, her hand coming up to gently stroke his face. "I already lost one friend; I can't lose two."

"Neither can I!"

A twisting black vine lashed down at them both. Hermione watched as it twisted upwards, getting ready to strike again. Unhesitatingly she shoved Ron away as it thrashed down once more. Bracing for a blow, Hermione eyes shot open with shock, at the feeling of something cold and icy wrapping around her waist. It violently tugged her back, causing her wand to slip out from her sleeve. "NO!" she cried, her arms straining to get hold of one of the only things that gave her comfort.

Ron had leapt to his feet and already was trying every spell to try to coax the shadow to loosen its grip. But to no prevail. Hermione was hauled up by her waist and sent flying into the sea of abyss above. Her stomach flipped as she watched a shaking Ron become smaller and smaller until the darkness consumed her vision. She felt herself flying higher and higher, her throat raw from screaming.

The grip on her waist relaxed and Hermione grabbed on to freezing black tendril with all her strength. Her captor's hold slipped away, and she cruelly transitioned from flying to falling. Wind rushing past her; manic hair being blown from her face; jumper billowing. Her stomach dropped and an unusual tickling feeling gathered in her hands and feet.

She just kept falling and falling. Until, without warning, she stopped.


	2. Chapter 2: Filth

Chapter 2:

Filth

It was the loud shrill cackle of a distant witch that eventually roused Hermione from sleep. She didn't remember ever landing. Just falling. It was as if ground had just appeared from underneath her. Although, whilst she wasn't tumbling anymore, her stomach definitely was. She abruptly launched forward, clutching her abdomen with one hand and holding back her manic mane of hair with the other. What little food she had in her stomach, was soon deposited on to the cold, damp floor. With the back of her hand she wiped her mouth and seated herself back on the floor. The taste left in her mouth nearly made her sick all over again.

"…Ron?" she croaked; voice notably higher.

Thick impenetrable smoke wafted through the air, carrying with it the stench of rotting flesh and urine. It made Hermione's eyes water involuntarily and it took several hard blinks for her vision to clear. When it did, she was met with grim looming buildings with dark exposed bricks and featureless bleak skies. The cold cobbled floor she found herself sat on, was wet and caked with grime. She stood with shaking legs; bits of filth deciding to stick to her clothes and skin.

On either side of her stood proud, gothic-like structures that casted long and eery shadows. Behind her was a tall rotting wooden fence, most-likely doused in magic that prohibited wrong-doers from climbing it. Her hand reached out to touch it but stopped when she felt a small invisible energy licking at her palm. Her hypothesis was correct. In front was a bustling lane filled with gloomy individuals covered in soot and dirt. Dogs snarled at those who came near, shop owners with grim faces hassled their customers and two very drunk men could be seen brawling through a bar window. Cackles, sobbing and disputes echoed throughout. Even from where she stood, Hermione could see the characters that filled the streets all wore similar expressions of either evil or anguish.

Icy wind seeped through Hermione's clothes, causing a shiver to roll down her spine. Fingernails digging into her arms, she crossed them over her chest. However, out of the corner of her eye she noticed that her sleeves were no longer a shade of rich red and reached her fingertips. Instead they stopped just before her elbows and were fashioned from thin white cotton, covered in little specks of dirt. She looked down at her clothes. Fragile white fabric had been fashioned into a dress that stopped just under her knees. Her feet were left bare and fully exposed to the cold.

Then she noticed something. Her hands came up to her chest, finding it flat and narrow. '_What the hell happened?'_

And then she remembered.

Her eyes shot open with alarm and she rushed out on to the street, cupping her hands to her mouth. "Ron!" she called, her little voice trying to rival the loud groans, grunts and growls that flowed through the street. "RON!"

No one seemed to notice the shivering girl screaming urgently. Or if they did, they didn't care. She delved further into bustling crowd of giants. The only time someone addressing her was when a large beefy man bellowed for Hermione to move. She didn't have time to before his large clammy hand grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and tossed her to the pavement. Her hip bone smacked into the curb and she winced in pain. With trembling legs, she forced herself on to her feet and shook off the pain. "Ron!" Hermione tried again. "RON!"

"Ron!" an older witch mocked; her sunken features twisted into an amused expression as she mocked the little girl.

"Oh, bugger off!" Hermione snapped before darting back into the crowds.

For hours she searched. Her feet numb and bleeding towards the end. Shivering uncontrollably, her limbs tired and aching, she darted through the grim crowd, dodging past witches and wizards who felt no guilt from shoving her on to hard flagged road. "Move." someone growled from behind her. A hard push on the shoulder and Hermione was sent flying on to the curb, making an audible smacking sound as she did. Unbothered, she dusted herself off.

There were too many people. It was impossible to distinguish anything past the sea of misery. That and she was suddenly half the size of everyone, making it dreadfully easy to be tossed around like a ragdoll. She backed into the building behind her, rewarding herself with a short rest. With a passing glance she surveyed the building that she leant on.

It was an insignificant shop with peeling paint and broken windows on the upper floor. A plank of wood had been hammered to the front door with the words 'Max & Sons' scribbled on. Golden brown baguettes and glistening red apples were displayed in the window tauntingly. Hermione's stomach whined desperately to be fed and had been doing so for nearly an hour. She had kept the nagging in her middle at bay, deeming it unimportant, but now she stood with her nose to the glass, eyes wide and mouth drooling.

Then something drew her attention away from the teasing food. In the reflection of the glass stood a little girl, with big doleful brown eyes, untamed hair and slightly larger than average front teeth. Those being the only remnants of how Hermione Granger used to be. Her features were softer and smaller, and her skin flushed red from the cold. Small barely-there freckles were spattered all over her face. Too short to see the rest of her body, Hermione contented herself with hating just her babyish face and its chubby cheeks.

All suspicions had been confirmed. Hermione had defied all logic surrounding time and youth, for here she stood age eighteen with the face of a small child. Shock and horror coursed through her as her hands automatically came up to play with her new round face. She watched herself intently, moving her head and angling it every so often to try and find any small fragments of the definable features she used to have.

A bell ringed and a few seconds later, something smacked the side of her head. "Shoo!" a doddery old man roared, beating her away with a thick newspaper, "Get away from my shop, you thieving little beggar!" She brought her hands above her face, protecting it from his surprisingly hard hits and opened her palm. He smacked his newspaper down directly on to her splayed hand which she immediately curled her fingers around and snatched away. Quickly she ran off back into the sea of people with the newspaper securely tucked under her arm. The obnoxiously loud protests of the old man being drowned out by the sound of the streets.

Just like many times before, Hermione had to reorganise and strategize. This was clearly Knockturn Alley (the smell was enough evidence to prove that theory), and through a strange series of events Hermione had ended up here looking as she did.

There's a bright side to every situation. Or, at least, most of them. Whilst Death Eaters were on the prowl, looking for an adult Hermione Granger no one would think to look twice at the little girl with bushy hair, bad teeth and bare feet. And, of course, the best place to hide is in plain sight. She had hoped to update herself on the past few weeks, to see if there was any news about allies outside of the Order who would be willing to help a small, pale little creature such as herself.

Ducking under a sofa, a wizard was levitating and leaping over puddles of rainwater, Hermione darted through Knockturn Alley until she was positive it was safe to read the news without being swatted or spat on. Her tiny chest heaving, she unfolded the newspaper. _Family of Muggles Found Murdered in Their Home _was printed in large black letters.

Just above written in small thick text was the date, something she would usually overlook but a nagging feeling in the back of her mind had forbidden it from happening this time. _1__st__ June 1965. _Her stomach wrenched and that earlier feeling of nausea was slowly creeping back. If it wasn't for the fact Hermione was there now, standing tall at three foot her heart wouldn't have been thundering half as much.

"It's just an old paper…" she breathed, needing those words to be said aloud if she was to feel any comfort from them. Do people keep newspapers that are over three decades old? Maybe for sentiment? But as evil as the residents of this place were, would they really keep a newspaper article on something they consider so seemingly unimportant, such as muggles? Questions whirred around in her head. And questions should preferably have answers. Squaring her shoulders and gathering courage she stepped out from her resting place, leaving the comforts that the shadows provided.

On the other side of the street, a young woman with a pale sullen face and wild ebony hair sat huddled on the damp paved ground. In her hand rested a large bottle of Fire-whiskey. She brought it up to her white, chapped lips and guzzled it down. A drunk may not have been the best option, but as she looked back at her other options, she decided an alcoholic would be not as likely to kick her. Without looking back Hermione jogged up to where she sat and shoved the newspaper into her lap.

"When did this happen?" Hermione demanded rather than asked, her teeth gritted together.

"Why?" the stranger asked before taking another swig. "Friends of yours, Mudblood?"

Hermione faltered. "How did you…"

"Your arm." The woman grinned, the vile reek of alcohol pouring from her mouth. "Ain't doing a good job of hiding it, Sunshine."

Hermione checked her arm. Dark, jagged letters contrasted harshly against her pale skin. She just presumed that the damage had been reversed, just like her teeth, body and, of course, age. But no. Apparently not. "Seriously?" she muttered to herself, rubbing her thumb over the scar as if it could be wiped away.

Huffing, Hermione transfixed her gaze back to the drunk in front of her, who had discovered her bottle was empty. She pulled her wand from the inside of her sock and managed to slur a small 'Repleo' before continuing to drink herself into a stupor.

"When did this happen?" Hermione tried again, her tone becoming more forceful.

"If you're too young to read it, you're too young to know about it."

"I can read it—"

"Then stop bothering me."

"How long ago was it!" Hermione persisted, jabbing her finger at the paper on the stranger's lap.

"I don't know. Few days? Now, would ya kindly sod off." Was the reply she received before being promptly shoved into the streets.

With very little grace Hermione tumbled into a passer-by. He gently hauled her to her feet but before she could thank him, he had trudged away muttering about the 'youth of today'.

A few days ago. She said it happened a few days ago. So, that meant a few days ago it was the 1st of June 1965. Not a few decades; days. Could she really take a drunk's word? Normally she would have brushed it off as a result of the stranger's obvious intoxication but that seemed highly irresponsible seeing what current predicament she was currently suffering with.

More people flooded the narrow road and Hermione was left to fight her way through. She barged past strangers, the darkness that the early evening provided made it infinitely harder. Her little heart palpitated at an alarming speed and all blood rushed to her head. Her feet were still bloodied and bruised, not to mention tired. Every part of her ached from exhaustion so her venturing was cut short and she snuck into a small cramped alley. The moss from the gutter was so soft and tempting and a large fraying and tattered blanket, which was more holes than fabric, lay near.

Hermione cocooned herself. Her little frame trembling from the cold as she nestled into the floor. Her head thundered with questions that needed answers. This was worse than a nightmare. She was small, helpless and alone. And worst of all, her feet really hurt.

**_A.N. Hello good people. Yes, this is an annoying author's note. Mwahaha. I'd just like to say that C, E, F, J (and perhaps even M if the others coax you into reading this) stop bringing up my fanfiction. You know I will have my revenge._**


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